闇祭・Walpurgisnacht
by Bong Bong Bong
Summary: [Ongoing] Life is more hellish than hell itself.
1. 日本魂・The Soul of Japan: 1-4

****闇祭 / WALPURGISNACHT****

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"Everything in this world is fake. My life is nothing more than a drama that you penned. Please, prove it. _"Faust"_ is on show."  
（この世界はすべて嘘でした。私の人生はあなたの書いた戯曲にすぎません。それを証明して下さい。「ファウスト」が上演中）

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tentative list of works:

**_(日本魂）The Soul of Japan  
_**_（子どもの神様）The God of Children_  
_（天国画）Alina's Best Artwork_  
_(月様太陽様) The Sun and The Moon  
I Talk To The Rain  
__（御稜威の夜）Night of Power: __すべて平安！夜明けまで！  
(父を失ってあの日）The Day I Lose My Father  
__(廻り姫）Rolling Girl  
(逝義）Justice_  
_(ある馬鹿の一書）The Life of a Stupid Woman_  
_Noi_  
_(少女記）An Account of A Young Girl: Madoka's Summer Holiday Assignment  
(__過去帳）Death Register_  
_（夢夜々）The Nights Dreaming_  
_（何が彼女をそうさせてか）I Dream of the Future_

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日本魂・**The Soul of Japan**

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**LIFE IS MORE HELLISH THAN HELL ITSELF  
(**人生は地獄よりも地獄的である**)**  
_Ryuunosuke Akutagawa, Words of a Dwarf (侏儒の言葉)_

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**1.**

What is the soul of Japan?

I don't know. What does it mean? I don't know. When do you use it? What does it look like? I don't know a single thing. I don't even know if there's really anything inside ― inside of us.

Just the other day, a friend of mine asked me off the cuff, "If people have souls, what about countries?" And frankly, I couldn't answer her because I don't know what a soul is. I don't even know what a "Japan" is. Maybe if you ask to point on the map, I can find it for you. But that's about it; if you ask me, "What really is a Japan?", then I've got no clue at all. And of course, if I don't know what it is, then you can't expect me to know what it's like. It was a ridiculous question anyways, not worth thinking about. Even if I could hold a soul in my own hands, I still don't think I'd know. Someone I knew had an answer though. "I'm a zombie!" she said. I thought she was an idiot for saying that, and I told her off, saying that we can't be zombies because we're alive. But now that when I think about it again, I realise that even an idiot can have a point sometimes. If I could hold my soul in my hands, what different would I be from a machine with its batteries?

Maybe it's because of a difference in our personalities, but to me, she was difficult to understand. I don't know how she came to think the way she did. I don't think she knew very well either. She wanted to be a real hero, a selfless saviour fighting for the weak and the needy. She was always living in her own la-la-land. I told her, "You think that by putting your life on the line for others, somebody's gonna stamp a form declaring that you're doing the right things, that you **deserve** to live?" But all she wanted was to live life so intensely that she could die at any moment without regrets, I think. For this purpose, she believed that there were some things weren't supposed to be discovered. She couldn't question herself. She couldn't feel pain or regret. She couldn't look back on what she'd done and ask herself: why? Or what for? Or what happened? This much I can understand, though I still don't know if I can really agree with her or not. Now that she's no longer here, I wish we'd been better friends while we still could. Maybe things could've been different? I don't know.

In the end, I really don't have an answer. Maybe if I went overseas I'd know better; apparently the foreigners know us better than we do, maybe it's 'cos their eyes are bluer than ours. But I do recall this, a story I heard from a friend of a friend. If anything, this story is probably the closest thing I've got to an answer. It's actually a very funny little story, so maybe you'll laugh or something, I dunno. I hope you do. It's just a story, so maybe you'd think, you know, that it's just a waste of time. It's true that it's just fiction, but if you read it the right way, fiction can be real too, y'know? And I mean at the end of the day, none of this is true. No need to take it too seriously, yeah? Nothing good happens to those people who take things too seriously.

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**2.**

But before I go on, I've got to start with a bit of an introduction.

Y'know, my old man was a good man. My old man used to run a church. To be blunt about it, he was always too honest and too kind. Maybe he really was too good a person. Otherwise, he'd still be running a church even now. Whenever he read the newspapers in the morning, his eyes would fill with tears out of sympathy. He was the kind of person who took these kinds of things to heart, yeah? And when he saw how people were still in pain everywhere, the rich and the poor, the good and the bad, he thought that something just wasn't right with the system, you know? I mean, it's a natural conclusion, isn't it? You've got a problem, but the solution doesn't work anymore. At some point, something's gotta give y'know?

That was what the old man thought. "For a new era to be saved, it needs new faith." This was what he liked to say. That's why on one occasion, he went as far as preaching things that weren't in the doctrine to worshippers. He was especially critical of those things which he thought were old remnants of old faith, parts of a solution that just wasn't relevant anymore. They needed to be let go or we would be stuck in the past forever, running rounds in a wheel of suffering.

Maybe it's because of this that, in the beginning, my old man never believed in it – the soul of Japan. He didn't know for sure if Japan had a soul, but he knew it didn't need one anymore. It was nothing but sweet words to get the people to find hope and belonging in a world of pain, even as everything was burning around them, even as their faces of their parents and their children were boiling and bubbling in the cold black rain. Somewhere along the line, he even thought it was slowly turning into the work of the devil. My old man tried to spread the word.

"Admiral Togo possessed the soul of Japan. Yukio Mishima possessed it. And the local fishmonger has it as well," he said in one of his sermons. "Swindlers and murderers also have the soul of Japan. Since it is a spirit, it is always blurry and fuzzy. There is no one in Japan who hasn't had it on the tip of his tongue, but there's no one who has actually seen it."

But however convincing he might have been, it was clear to everyone that he did not have the slightest knowledge of what the Japanese spirit was. These were not words that someone with the soul of Japan on the tip of his tongue would utter. Everyone knew that he was not like them, that he didn't want to become like them. Everyone knew that he was trying to make them become like him. And how could someone who did not even believe in something like the soul, who thought the soul was too abstract to be true, really devote himself to God? My old man turned away lots of people with what he was saying, but he believed that he was only speaking the truth. He never stopped.

Of course, on the other hand, the worshippers' feet came to a sudden halt. One by one, they deserted him and denounced him as a heretic. Then he was excommunicated from the Church. No one listened to what my old man had to say. But I mean, it's only natural, isn't it? Looking at it from outside, it was nothing but a shady new-age religion, wasn't it? No matter how much his words made sense, no matter how obvious it was, to the whole world he was just a deranged nuisance, just like the old lady in the park who sits on the bench and hums enka all day and talks to her husband who is not there anymore. Our whole family was outcast from society and left in a state without nothing to eat.

Even my sister had to stop going to school because every time she would come back with her skin blue-black all over. She would never tell us what really happened. One time though, I think in spring, she left her bento behind at home. I went to her school to give it to her. Then, in the courtyard gardens behind the school building, through the thicket, I saw some of her classmates forcing her to get down on her knees. They scribbled something on her face with an oil marker, and they kept on telling her, "If you don't like it, then too bad. Blame yourself for being born into your family. You did something rotten in your past life, didn't you?" "You octopus!" "Don't say that! Rude!" "What? I'll say it if I wanna say it, octopus!" And eventually they all agreed that she ought to just kill herself. It's better that way, they said. I just stood shocked in my feet; I always thought some of these were her good friends. I couldn't understand what was happening, and I guess I still don't.

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**3.**

What they said next was, "Oi, you forgot your bento, didn't you?" My skin turned cold. Then from the corner, a voice came hollering out. One of the boys gave a thumbs up and told him to bring it here. And from behind the bushes, some kid holding a broom and dustpan swept a bunch of flower petals and something else into my sister's face. I looked closer. It was a dying bumblebee. Its wings were still twitching, its stinger outstretched, trying to dig into anything it could reach.

"Couldn't find any honey for you, sorry."  
"See, we got you some lunch. Don't mind, dig in. Lots of nutrition!"

It started out light-hearted as always and almost looked like it was all some joke in some mean-spirited fun. But when she refused to cooperate, they got angry. They shoved her head forward and kicked her thighs. Still she didn't move.

"Oi, oi, what's wrong? You're hungry right?"  
"…i …iyada…"  
"Huh?"  
"Iyada!"  
"Oi! What, don't know Japanese? You reading too much of those English gosuparu."  
"Iyada! Iyada! Iyada, iyada, iyada!"

One of the boys gave her a tight slap, then another one pulled her cheeks.

"Hey! Keep it down! What if the teachers come! Then it'll be all your fault!"  
"If my mom finds out, she'll get angry!"

My sister shut up after that, but she just stayed in her kneeling position, looking at the bee as if she was about to cry. They kept on shoving her from behind, saying hora! hora!, with one of the girls even stepping on her back and yanking her hair up. But every time, my sister would grit her teeth and squirm upright.

"C'mon, you're taking too long."  
"We gotta play more after this."  
"When is the bell going to ring? Oh no, I forgot to bring my homework again…"  
"We'll feed you ok?"  
"If you don't, we'll tell everyone that your father's one of those new fake Kirishitans trying to scam people's money."

That was when I snapped out of it. I ran up to them and beat the shit out of the slow ones. It was easy; I was bigger and I was stronger. The faster ones got away though. I yelled my lungs out, and I punched them to the ground, and I made sure to knock some of their teeth out as a warning. At the same time, I pitied them and I felt bad about what I was doing. I mean, the children probably didn't see what they were doing was wrong. It's not their fault that we were just fake Kirishitans out to scam people's money and cheat people into buying faith. We were just born bad people in the first place. We just deserved it for being born. Silly us; we should have aborted ourselves while we could!

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**4.**

Looking at it logically like this, they probably thought they were meting out justice for those who couldn't do so. Or maybe they were just doing it because they were bored, I dunno. But no matter what it was, they were just doing what anybody else does on a regular basis: choose to see certain people as less than human, the badder the better. I think it's only natural; we don't have all the time and energy in the world to see everyone as more than just a doormat. And I just did what had to be done by bashing their faces in for it. Maybe I didn't really need to do that, but I know I damn well wanted to.

When I heard the teachers shouting at me from far away, I realised what I had done. I quickly carried my sister on my back and took off. I ran and I ran and I didn't think of looking back. I probably gave one of them a concussion, and then some. His name was Tarou-kun. I know it because I could hear a girl crying his name from high up in the school building. When I turned to see, she was already leaning too far from the window. I can't forget that scene. I looked back forward and ran faster.

As I ducked past the streets, shifting from alley to alley, I asked myself. We're all good people, aren't we? I asked myself. Then why do we do this to each other? All because Adam ate some fucking apple? Maybe things would've been different if he'd eaten a peach instead and become like Son Goku or Momotaro. When I thought about how funny the whole situation was, I don't know why, but I started crying. I was crying, but my sister wasn't. She was tough like that, I guess. I asked her if she was alright, and she said yes. I asked her if she was feeling hungry, and she said yes. I waved to her the bento in my hand. It was probably all messed up inside from all the fighting, but food was food. I made her promise never to forget her lunch again. And she never did.

We made it back home by dinnertime (an irony, because our family couldn't afford to have dinner that day), after I took a trip to a private clinic and begged the doctor to treat my sister. I promised him that I would pay back the money one day, somehow, anyhow – I could work for him without pay, he could put me on debt forever, I didn't care – so long as my parents never found out what happened to my sister. I got lucky. And soon afterwards my sister stopped going to school. Honestly, I was relieved. I couldn't always be there to protect her when the time came.

What was happening, I couldn't understand it. Something, everything was wrong. I couldn't understand what was happening to our family. My old man didn't say anything that was a mistake. They were just different from what other people had to say, things that people maybe were too stubborn to listen to. Even five minutes would have been enough. If people could just lend him their ears for five minutes, anyone would have understood that all the things he said made sense. Yet no one stood by him. Why did we have to be punished for trying to do good things with good intentions? I felt frustrated. I felt bitter. I couldn't let this go on. It wasn't fair; it wasn't right. The fact that no one could understood what that person was saying, I just couldn't take it anymore.

All my old man had was his family, who sympathised and believed in him until the very end. We were all stuck with him in the same boat anyways. We were supposed to be prepared to live and suffer together as one family. That's what family's for, yeah?

Now y'see, the old man had two kids, both of them girls: Kyouko and Momo. This is a story I heard from a friend of a friend about the girl named Kyouko, a normal story of a girl who wanted to save her family and save the world. But it's not some heroic tale or adventure, nothing uplifting like that. All I got from it, and all you'll ever get from it, was a story you could find in any old body anywhere. It happens every day. No, actually, it could never happen here, of all places, you know it. Really, a five-year-old could've thought of something better, but I guess it is what it is. No point crying over spilt milk. It's just a fictional story anyways; it's all made up, so… right then ―

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日本魂・**The Soul of Japan: **to be continued.


	2. 日本魂・The Soul of Japan: 5-10

**5.**

This is where the story starts. Enjoy.

One day, as Kyouko was searching for apples in the orchard at the back of the church, she met a magical white creature. Amongst the neatly lined and lush trees of spring, the creature lurked in the shadowed treetops, gazing at Kyouko. Slinking from treetop to treetop, it rustled all the leaves it could. Kyouko looked up and saw beady red rubies glistening in the sunlight, gone here and now there, now here and gone there. Wherever she turned, the white body seemed to everywhere follow, as though hovering in the sky like a vulture.

"Who's there!?"

Kyouko hugged tightly onto her bag of apples with both arms, one lush apple peeking its head out the bag on the verge of spilling out. She feared it could have been a hungry wild animal. Kyouko would rather get mauled to death, if it meant that she could at least get all the apples safely to her family. Though weak from hunger and overnight vigil, she readied a stance to defend herself.

"OI! COME OUT!"

Kyouko's voice cracked from fear. And then, the creature did show itself, the likes of which Kyouko had never before seen. From out the shadow of a large tree, it walked into the light and sat still before Kyouko. Its body was like a cross between a kitsune and a tanuki, gleaming eyes red. And from within its ears, out grew another long pair of ears, rabbit-like, with golden ring-like objects floating around them. Then, it started to talk. "Konnichiwa! Hajimemashite! My name is Kyuubey!" With the voice of a young boy, the creature introduced itself in a friendly manner. Kyouko could hardly believe her eyes and ears. But Kyuubey paid no heed. It followed quickly with an explanation of what its purpose was.

In this world, it said, there were malevolent spirits known as Witches, who cause destruction and feed off the despair of humans. Fighting against them were Magical Girls, symbols of justice and hope, who devoted themselves to countering their threat. And it told her, "If you make a contract with me and become a magical girl, I can help grant any of your wishes and make them come true." In exchange for a dream come true, Kyouko would have to spend her life protecting the world from Witches, with probably no other form of reward or recognition. When Kyouko asked, "Why me?", Kyuubey replied, "Because you have a wish, don't you?"

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**6.**

Kyouko was highly skeptical of all that she'd been told, and she wondered if she hadn't fallen into some rabbit hole along the way. She thought maybe she'd snacked on the wrong kind of mushroom in the afternoon. Still, she was sure that none of this was just a dream. All night, she lay in bed, thinking of the encounter, thinking of what miracle she would make true if she chose to make the contract. Come the next week, Kyuubey took Kyouko to a place where all her doubts would be cleared. Early morning after dawn under cloudy skies, through the forest, the clear brook running, the busy crossroads, the industrial plants, the suburbs, and in a quiet corner: a single car parked by the woodlands. Standing at a distance, Kyouko could barely make out any details, but she could roughly tell the outlines. Inside the car were six or seven working adults, all dressed up in their work suits.

"Can you see on the side of their neck?" Kyuubey chirped.  
"Yeah, there's a tattoo isn't there? Why's it glowing?"  
"That is a Witch's Kiss. Witches plant thoughts and impressions into the minds of ordinary people, feeding off the despair they produce. It could happen to anyone who isn't a magical girl. But the more desperate and psychologically weakened the victim, the better to feed off from."  
"Okay, I got that, but what's that got to do with anything?"  
"Let's go a little closer."

An eerie silence hung over the atmosphere. Kyouko expected the faces of those in the car to become clearer, but it seemed as though there was something fogging up the glass. That was indeed the case, she soon found out. A flexible pipe ran from the exhaust straight through a front-seat window. Any gaps were carefully sealed up by cellophane tape. And all along their laps were charcoal bristles, used to absorb whatever oxygen was left in the car. Kyouko moved no further. They were already dead.

Suddenly the morning wind felt incomparably cold.

"What..."

Kyouko mumbled out a short word, only to realise she'd been holding her breath all this while. She couldn't quite comprehend what saw. It happened every day, she always knew, especially now that Kazamino's economy was in decline. Every time her father read the local papers, one of such incidents would inevitably fill a small corner of the front page. Kyouko knew that it was appropriate to feel sadness and pity for them. Sometimes she would even obediently follow her father in forcing out a single tear run down her cheek. But now that the scene was right before her eyes, she had no idea what to do or how to act. There was not the sadness or pity she thought she would find in her heart.

Kyuubey's voice brought her back to reality.

"As you can see, the influence of the Witch's Kiss led them to take their own lives. To be fair, they should already have wanted to do so in the first place, but the Witch's Kiss simply pushed them to draw a suicide pact. Credit must be given where it's due."

It strolled once round the car, before hopping onto the bonnet, one paw placed against windshield.

"Chances are they knew nothing of each other before this. They're all bonded only by the attraction of the Witch's Kiss."

Then, Kyuubey glided to the roof of the car, where it perched facing Kyouko. For some reason, Kyuubey's voice betrayed no sadness nor sentimentality. It seemed as if it was only studying the incident from a distance, delivering its lines with an almost inhuman polish.

"And you... what do you do? Just stand and stare?"  
"I contract magical girls. This is all I can do."

Kyuubey jumped down and walked to Kyouko's side. The two stood still, watching the smoke curl and wisp inside the car, occasionally revealing the faces of the dead, pale and rigid and at ease.

"So what do I do now?" Kyouko asked.  
"It's already too late. It is unfortunate, but they are already dead. If you want, you can call the police now, and tomorrow it will appear on the newspapers that another group suicide occurred. That's all that can be done now."

Kyouko nodded.

That was the end of that. Kyuubey headed towards the woodlands nearby in exeunt, but it turned back once, and it said,

"Of course, if you ever feel like it, you can always form a contract with me. Then you can help stop all this tragedy from happening again! Just call my name and I'll be there."

It vanished as silently as it had come.

Kyouko made her way back home and continued with her daily routine, as though nothing had happened. But by dinnertime, Kyouko had already made up her mind. She looked at the old man, she looked at the old woman, she looked at Momo. And she imagined that, with just a stroke of misfortune, any one of them could be struck by the Witch's Kiss and leave this world in despair. For the first time that day, Kyouko felt sadness drip into her heart. This drip soon turned into a surge, and then into a flood submerging her in melancholy.

At midnight, Kyuubey appeared, perched by the windowsill. Kyouko was ready to make the contract. After a short supplication, Kyouko gazed with determination at Kyuubey and made an earnest wish from the bottom of her heart. – "Make everyone take my old man's words seriously." She didn't care what she had to do, she didn't care what she had to give up, as long as she could make everything better again. And they did. Kyuubey dangled a spider's thread of salvation down to Kyouko, and Kyouko grabbed on to climb. What she did not know was that this one spider's thread could never have supported the weight of her hopes and despair, and that her one simple wish would damn the rest of her family for the short remainder of their lives.

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**7.**

The next morning, the old man's church was crowded with people who came uninvited, stirring up a huge commotion. Every day, worshippers multiplied at a completely frightening rate. The old man was overjoyed. All along he had been doubting not only if he was right in his preaching, but if he was even in the right mind to begin with. To him, this was at last a recognition of all his efforts, maybe even a divine sanction in his mission. His wife would always tell him too, "Believing in yourself, continuing to sow the seeds of happiness – now finally they've bloomed!"

As for Kyouko, she openly joined the number of magical girls, and eventually met a good friend in M-senpai – whose name should not be divulged here to protect her privacy. However good the old man's sermons were, they didn't help exterminate witches or protect the people after all. Y'know the English song, "Oh when the saints come marching in / I wanna be part of their number"? It was something like that. Kyouko used to hum the melody cheerfully in the mornings as she brushed her teeth. The water was running, the electricity was back on, everything that happened before seemed like a bad dream. Where they used to have an embarrassing half an apple or vegetables in miso for dinner, now they could spend on a full three side dishes plus soup. With this in mind, drunk in happiness and joy, Kyouko plunged herself headfirst into her role, like an idiot, thinking, "This's where I come in!" She thought that she and her old man would save the world, both in the light and out the underbelly. A good year or so passed like this.

But in the end, the old man realised that what the people were listening to was not him. They were listening to the soul of Japan at the tip of his tongue. Some part of the old man always wanted to become like a god, because though a human could help make everything better, only a god could make everyone happy. He knew that that would be blasphemy though. He was only human, only a stray sheep, so he just tried to do his best day after day. This made him happy. Then, one Sunday, delighted in thinking of how much he was helping save others, he made a slip of the tongue in his fervour and proclaimed himself to be a Messenger of God, or a half-divine kami like the Emperor. Everyone in the congregation seemed to see a light flush through their eyes. And one by one, they got on their knees like little puppet dolls and prostrated before him, chanting Hallelujah, Hallelujah, singing praises to the Lord with tears in their eyes. That was probably the moment the old man realised something was wrong.

He quickly pieced together what was happening. The trick was revealed plain before him. When the old man learnt that that crowd of worshippers weren't there simply out of faith, but by the power of magic, he flared up. He cursed his daughter, saying she was a witch bewildering people's hearts. Be it in the privacy of their home or out addressing the congregation, the old man would never let slip any chance to denounce Kyouko and make it known that she was a demon. Almost overnight, the warm reception Kyouko once received from the churchgoers now turned to cold stares and the occasional death threat. In the market, the old ladies would spit on her feet. At school, no one would talk to her. Sometimes, the devout would beg Kyouko to spare their families of her evil. Even the children in the park hated her now. Momo too hung back at a distance and treated Kyouko like a stranger.

You might wonder, how can Kyouko's own father be so merciless and unfeeling as to do this to his own daughter, who had been with him through thick and thin, who had sacrificed so much for their cause. But if you think this way, then you must have never seen the magic of the devil before. The old man might been vile in doing so, but he was right to hate Kyouko. Kyouko was a witch and the servant of the devil. You should not feel any pity for her. You should hate her with all your heart, and you should make sure that no one you know ends up like her. That is the only way you can be safe from the bewitching whispers of the devil. And I'm sure that by the time you are done with this story, you will find in it many reasons to hate and despise Kyouko, the witch. God loves the sinners, you may argue, but Kyouko was by no means a sinner. Kyouko was no longer human, you must understand.

* * *

**8.**

In the beginning, the old man could not accept the conclusion he'd come to: that Kyouko had bewitched the hearts and minds of the congregation. To make sure that he wasn't going crazy, he had to ask if everyone would think the same of Kyouko, had they only known what she had done to them. One person's madness may be everyone's common sense after all. And it turned out to be true; the old man was right; the old man was not crazy; everyone agreed that Kyouko was a witch.

But if Kyouko was a witch, then what did that make him? He later wrote in his little black notebook of meditations:

_『 Perhaps God would not have allowed me to be deceived in this way, since He is said to be supremely good.  
But if it were inconsistent with his goodness to have created me such that I am deceived all the time, it would seem equally foreign to his goodness to allow me to be deceived even occasionally; yet this last assertion cannot be made._

_And yet firmly rooted in my mind is the long-standing opinion that there is an omnipotent God who made me the kind of creature that I am._

_I shall then suppose, not that God that is supremely Good, but the Devil not less powerful than deceitful, has employed his whole energies in deceiving me;_

_I shall think that the sky, the air, the earth, colours, shapes, sounds, and all external things are merely delusions of dreams which He has devised to ensnare my judgment._

_I shall consider myself as not having hands or eyes, or flesh, or blood or senses, but as falsely believing that I have those things._

_But I do have hands and I do have flesh and blood. Here they are before me. So too the Earth and all that lies in good dominion. They are self-evident. I am not deceived. But the world is all that is the case; how can I know of that which lies completely beyond me?_

_I believe in God; but I know there is a Devil. Surely faith is greater than the knowledge which came from it – ? 』_

In this time, the old man continued giving his sermons and Kyouko continued fighting witches. But at the dinner table, he would pretend she was not there. Sometimes he would hurl a cup or a plate at her and explode in fury, chastising his family members not to show any kindness to the witch who had cursed him to speak the devil's tongue. What he could not have expected was his own cruel words twisting the minds of his loved ones, such that even if he told them to set Kyouko's bed on fire while she lay asleep, they would seriously grapple with the idea in emotional agony. Who knew when their answer would one day turn to a casual "alright", or even a deferential "at your service"?

One time, he told his wife to drop needles into Kyouko's bowl of minestrone soup and mix garden dirt and metal shavings into her furikake. "Won't she die? Won't she get hurt? I'm worried." was the question nonchalantly raised. And the old man replied simply, "She's a witch; she has the power of the devil on her side. If she dies, then that will be a victory to God." The old woman turned to him with a knowing smile, and said, "Wait a minute, dear." Soon, she returned with an entire knitting kit. Then she set it out in full display and asked the old man, "Which do you think would go well with the basil? Ah, but not that one there; it's expensive." The old man looked at his wife in horror. Kyouko heard this story from the old woman, actually. And at the end of it, the old woman sighed and, turning to Kyouko, said, "I don't why. I don't why he looked at me like that, like I did something wrong. He's been getting quite moody these days, in fact. It's like he wants to make your life a living hell; just in case you get to feeling homesick, maybe. If I were him, I'd be more decisive. Why, if I can't have you sent back home to Hell, I'd at least make short shrift of your life as soon as I can. It'd better for us all, wouldn't it? I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. If I'd known you'd end up so unhappy, I would've aborted you when I still had the chance. I'm sorry. This is no place for you."

That was the end of their discussion. The old woman had other things to do.

* * *

**9.**

Time and again, Kyouko tried to seek the old man's forgiveness, but the old man refused to even meet her eyes. To be more precise, this witch before him had murdered his daughter, Kyouko, and assumed her form to lead all the stray sheep to a blazing fire. There was no forgiving to be had. Day and night, the old man questioned not only the fruits of all his labour but also his sanity. He feared that Kyouko's magic had perverted all that he said, turning him from the bearer of good news into the Messenger of the Devil. Everything he said had an almost hypnotic quality that, no matter what the contents of which were, would make everyone listen seriously – even himself. If he thought to himself, "You are a monster," the word would come back, "Yes, you are a monster." If he told others to "trust in the Lord and nothing else", some would truly end up doing just that. It is difficult to describe in detail what they ended up like, except to say that had become hallowed and blessed, having devoted themselves and all that was in their care to nothing but divine sustenance from the light of their Lord.

And if the old man ever asked himself, "What am I?", his tongue would wag haplessly out the words and his voice would answer back, "What am I?", "What am I?", "What am I?". Like the ripples of a pebble dropped into a deep well, his mind would echo back and forth with itself, until the old man became one with his thoughts, accepting them with all his heart.

There were a few times when he tried cutting his tongue off, hoping to end the vicious cycle, but he could never deal with the pain. The last time it happened was in the congregation hall. It was a weekday late morning and there was hardly anyone around, only a score of worshippers gathered in prayer. Standing atop the high altar, the old man turned his back towards the worshippers and drew a pair of kitchen scissors from within his robe. He kneeled down with his hands in prayer, thoughts vacillating like a pendulum – _チック・トック・チック・トック _– over matters too many and too vague to grasp at with the mind's eye. Readying himself, he tried sticking his tongue out, but fear seemed to whisper into his ear. It was all he could do to leave his mouth agape, asking, "Shall I never speak again?"

At that moment, the old man thought he heard the graceful, poignant cry of the toki. Wondering, he looked around and found outside a lone toki standing high atop a steeple. The toki was crying as if to announce the sunset. Paying it no mind, the old man looked up at the stained glass windows, warm light shining down from the images of the saints who had been through the same destitution for the sake of their Lord, and he asked, "Shall I never speak again?" Thinking back to all the long journey he had walked so far for the sake of his faith, the old man begged to the Lord with tears in his eyes – begged for what, it cannot be too sure – except that one tear seemed to follow another in quick succession, as if to let all the words unsaid flow first in rivers of tears from the eyes before blood would be shed from the tongue.

Then, behind the smiling saints, the clouds passed over the light, drenching all the church in mild grey. Taking a few steps back, he began to pant in fright, wary of the devil's approach, and muttered out, "Oh my God..." That one shadow of the toki suddenly seemed to fill his entire vision, so vividly he could almost see clearly the mandarin reds and silk whites reflected in all the windows. Its gentle cry shook his ears like never before, twisting into his ears the dreadful bellow of a trumpet from the heavens.

Crying, the old man pleaded, My God, please help me, but a strange and soothing power seemed to sap him of all strength, shackling his arms and legs to the floor like deadweight. Soon, the burning disk of the sun glowed red and surged into the dim chapel, washing away the faces of the holy saints. A vague and looming figure seemed to take their place in the red light, hovering before him. And finally, the figures became clear.

All around were the images of men and women in ceremonial prayer garb, sitting in a circle and drinking sake. To the far left, sat on a steppe was a short man with a bulging forehead and looked like a small mountain. A lady seemed to be spinning, or dancing in round and round over the centre, the bamboo branches in her hands criss-crossing in time with the music of the earth. She moved so slowly, the old man could not tell if the world was only moving around her each and every motion. And without exception, the rest were all singing songs from long past, holding up beads or mirrors or flowers so scentful, they seemed to perfume the whole cathedral. But at the very highest, the very greatest figure of them all –

"It is Mother Mary!" the old man cried, "Oh, Mother Mary!" She glowed golden from head to toe, her halo shining down sweetly on all the children of Man before her. Yet even in his rapture, something was amiss. Her eyes were not the usual Mother Mary, but instead they were small and slanted like those of Bodhisattva Kannon. And her robes were not the madonna blue dyes from the Mediterranean, but some purple and golden twelve-year kimono from the illustrations of the Konjaku Monogatari. Fervently, the old man muttered out the hallowed name of Mother Mary, pleading for rescue from the dark night of the soul. Then, from out of nowhere, a bright crimson light seemed to shine all over the church. The old man felt his tongue freeze in place, mouth dried down to the throat.

With a start, he jolted straight his back and stared straight ahead. He wanted to run away, but his legs did not move. He felt dizzied by the great radiance. In the flood of light, he heard only joyful voices soaring up to the sky.

"Oh, Ohirume, Ohirume, the Great Sun Goddess!"  
"No new god, we have no new god!"  
"All who oppose you will be defeated!"  
"Look at that, darkness is gone! The rising sun!"  
"All you see is yours, your mountains, your forests, your towns, your houses, and your sea!"  
"There is no new god! All of us are your servants!"  
"Ohirume, Ohirume, Ohirume!"

Bewitched by the songs of the spirits, the old man's tongue began to wag all on its own, his mouth moved in tune, murmuring, "Ohirume! There is no god but Ohirume!" And into his ear, a voice – the voice of Japan, he thought – whispered, "Your god will die. Your god is dead. Your god is dead and you have killed Him. How shall you atone? Is this your faith?"

With a start, he grabbed his tongue with a hand and yanked and, there – there it was, the abominable thing. But it would not behave. The old man surmised that though his spirit had submitted to the Lord, his body was clearly manipulated by forces unholy – by the unclean spirits of the country, the great ancient gods of the land from beyond the end of time. There was no choice but to cut it off, before the song of Japan entered his ears and entered his eyes and entered his head. Pulling onto his tongue with such force it seemed it would rip off from that alone, he lifted the scissor blades and aligned them to the surface of his tongue. He dwelled for a moment on the cool steel edges sharping along the thrashing pink flesh. The old man shut his eyes in resignation and made the final cut.

It was over in an instant. Just as the illusion broke from his mind's eye, his tongue fell onto the floor, somehow still wriggling about, blood squirting in pulses behind it. There was no pain, not yet: it happened too fast; but then the old man forced his eyes open, and he saw – there it was! The blood rushed from his face, and he quickly thrust a finger or two into his mouth, only to realise that his tongue was no longer there. When he withdrew his fingers, they were coated in blood, sliding down from wrist to arm. "What is this!? What is this!?" the old man wanted to scream out; but all that came from his lips was a series of inarticulate wails, so loud and drenched in sorrow that they seemed to move the very earth.

* * *

**10.**

A terrible thing had happened, this much was clear to Kyouko. Hearing the old man's cries, she flew down from the wing of the church where she was hiding in the attics up above, running as fast as she could to the main hall. She burst open the doors, and what awaited her was the sight of the old man lying huddled on the floor in unspeakable pain, his hands clawing at his cheeks and running across his scalp frenetically, running blood all across his face. The congregation watched on with their hands placed to their hearts. Outside, up in the sky was nothing but chaos. Flocks of birds of all shapes and sizes soared everywhere abound, crying their song as though in sympathy with the fallen man, their shadows painting the floor in flickers of light and darkness like black fire.

When the full extent of the situation finally dawned on her, Kyouko's face shattered. She turned to the congregation, disgust in her eyes. But upon seeing the reverent and tearful expressions on their faces, all her words of reproach and venom seemed to slip away. In the background, their voices silently sang to themselves,

"Oh Lord! Save his soul!"  
"Hallelujah!"  
"Oh Lord! Save his soul!"

They were doing the best they could to help the old man.

Kyouko flinched, skin tingling in terror, ears ringing with the sound of worship and the hallowed name of their sweet Lord. She rushed to the old man's side, trying her best not to look at his face, lest she became too overcome with emotion. With a calm and precision that could only have been evoked from extreme panic, Kyouko retrieved the fresh tongue and jammed it back into the old man's open mouth. Then with one hand covering his eyes, Kyouko let magic run through her fingers and into the tongue. In a matter of seconds, the tongue was reattached onto the old man, as though no harm had ever come to it in the first place.

The old man gazed up at Kyouko, not in relief, but frozen with fright. At last, he had seen firsthand what the powers of the devil were capable of. Indeed, he asked himself, if the devil was capable even of such acts of mercy, then how could anyone tell the difference between the miracles of God and the tricks of the devil? The devil was closer to him than the Lord. Or was it simply the ancient gods of Japan, exacting their wrath on this foreign religion – or worse still, could they be trying to refashion Lord Almighty into one of the many Japanese gods? When he regained his nerves, all he said was, "Now, now I can be sure. You are not my daughter. You are a monster." Kyouko hung her head, kneeling before the old man's body. She said nothing. Kyouko did not want him to stop spreading the good news he had to share. Kyouko still wanted him to save everyone. The old man was not allowed to forget his mission; the devil would not permit it so.

For the rest of the day, the old man shut himself inside his study brightly-lit, looking out the window, talking only to the rain as it fell across the evening and spilled meekly out over next dawn's light. The birds by then had all flown away.

Now, there is an old expression, 将錯就錯（そうさくしゅうさく）, which roughly means that once a mistake has been made, there is often little choice but for one to carry on that wrongdoing and take it to its logical conclusion. There is no turning back. Repentance can only take place after the fact. This unfortunate sequence of events that befell the church surely reflects what wisdom was hidden within this long-forgotten turn of phrase.

* * *

日本魂・**The Soul of Japan: **to be continued.


	3. 日本魂・The Soul of Japan: 11-13

**A/N:** Sections 9 and 10 from the previous installment heavily edited.

* * *

**11.**

Kyouko could not bring herself to hate the old man who once was her father. No matter how much ill will was thrown to her in this short period, she only grit her teeth and bore it all. All she could do was wait to be forgiven. This was because it was all her fault. It was her impatience that led her to rely on Kyuubey, and it was her wish that led to her downfall. She could not have known that her one wish made for her family could have been made for such disastrous and blessed consequences, but this excused nothing of her wrongdoing. She should have known that this was how the world was like. Or did she never treat seriously before all those newspaper articles of death and sorrow? Did she think that it would never happen to her? Kyouko knew all this like the back of her hand. What therefore accounted for her grave mistake was her naivete.

Many times, even she found it hard to deny, that the greatest crime she committed was not to have made a contract with the devil, but to even have been born at all. No doubt, it was difficult to still treat the old man as her father, but there was no better alternative for Kyouko than to pretend that nothing was happening and hope that one day, the belief she placed in her father and the seeds of happiness she sowed would all finally bloom.

The time soon came when the old man at last accepted Kyouko's penitence, but even this on a provisional basis. It was sometime during spring break when the worshippers young and old alike gathered en masse to celebrate The Resurrection Festival. That day, the church was packed to the brim, and everyone was in a joyous mood. The worshippers dressed well and carried along with them those chocolate eggs that were popular in the West, and a great big feast was had by all beneath the sweet light of morn. Anyone who wandered in might well have mistaken it for a full-scale Christmas celebration, for there were prepared cake and apple crumble pie and whole numbers of roasted chicken. The old man even managed to get stuffed turkey for the congregation.

In the midst of all the festivity, Kyouko kept to herself in a corner high up one of the cathedral's towers, peering down every so often. Lonely as she felt, she was certain that if she were to just pass by the crowd, they would all stop whatever they were doing and turn to her, following her every footstep with a silent beady gaze. This, she knew, was the price she had to pay for becoming a magical girl. She was glad enough that the old man, the old woman, and Momo were all happier than they'd ever been. And though she knew all her problems would be solved if she simply disappeared from their lives forever – what a glorious triumph it would be! the devil and His minions were repelled! – but something still tethered her heart tightly down. Whether it was the power of faith, whether it was the bonds of family, there seemed little difference anymore. From where she sat, she leaned out an open window and felt the breeze run down her neck, as she listened to the rapturous songs of glory erupt from the ground, the old man's eloquent sermons following shortly after.

"Without the miracle of the Resurrection, difficult and painful as it may be, I beseech each and every one of us to imagine what our lives would be like. Our message would be powerless. Our faith would be pointless. Our salvation would be useless. Our life would be hopeless. We must be thankful for not just the bountiful blessings that the Lord Almighty rains down upon us, but also the many trials and tribulations that bring us hardship in this world! Why, without the quenching water from the Lord, what fires would rise from the pits of Hell and take us all softly into our good night! Life would be more hellish than hell itself."

On that blessed day, the old man called for brother to forgive brother, father to welcome son, neighbour to accomodate neighbour, friend to delight friend. The old man raised up the old parable of Cain and Abel, of the first crime to be committed. And he warned the congregation to do their best to protect the peace of their families, their communities, and of the peace within themselves. Given such a tone of forgiveness, was it not to be expected that Kyouko suddenly felt a longing to reunite with her family? Even though they saw her as nothing but spawn from hell, she wanted to be accepted by the old man and the church once more. Indeed, time and time again, was it not this very kind of wishful thinking that led her astray? Even now, I wish I could pull her by the ear and tell her what a hopeless cause she was fighting for.

* * *

**12.**

After dark, before the nighttime celebrations commenced, Kyouko tried to reconcile with the old man one more time. In her prayer robes, she knocked on the door to the old man's study. It was rare that anyone would be allowed into the study, for the old man simply hated to have anyone prying into his business, and he would never let any of the churchhands see the inside. An exception was naturally made for his family – but whether this rule still extended to Kyouko, she could not have known until she tried. Then a voice beckoned her in.

Kyoko stepped inside, feeling the hard concrete beneat her soles turn to soft red velvet. She had practiced long for this day to come, all sorts of simulations performed in her mind. Nothing however could have calmed her nerves and prepared her heart for this meeting. There the old man sat in his desk, chin in hand as he twiddled with his fountain pen, blank manuscript paper spread flat before him. The old man rarely allowed anyone to come into his presence when he was writing, especially when he wasn't making much headway. Now, as he rose from his seat, his face shewed a new level of sullenness, the shoulders of his reddish-brown robes slightly damp from sweat.

He asked, "Is there anything you need from me?", gazing coldly at Kyouko.

Kyouko's next words ought to have been, "I'm sorry. I have committed an irredeemable wrongdoing. Otou-sama, please forgive me." But they remained stuck at the back of her throat, as her lips quivered in fright. Because, she did not know what she had to be sorry for. She did not know what was so wrong about it. She did not know why she had to be forgiven. Even after all this time, she was still unwilling to accept the reality before her. The oil lamps lined up along the walls flickered their warm yellow firelight, such that the old man's face seemed to waver on the boundary between darkness and light, like a will o' the wisp.

"Otou-sama..." Her voice cracked out.

The old man furrowed his brows in disgust and looked away.

Kyouko dropped on all fours.

"OTOU-SAMA!"

She quickly choked back the tears and stifled a whimper. But even this outburst of emotion did nothing to faze the old man. This time, he turned his back fully to Kyouko and gazed out the night.

"I will ask you once again, in case you were not listening. Is there anything you need from me? If not, kindly take your leave. I am busy."

When the old man said this, Kyouko raised her head and, all but biting into her own words, cried sharply, "Otou-sama! Please ― just this once, look at me properly!"

The old man turned round and cast a nonchalant eye onto the witch's figure.

"Look at what properly?"  
"Your daughter! I am your daughter! Sakura Kyouko!"

In spite of this impassioned plea, the old man only cocked an eyebrow as his expression grew pensive. It seemed at least he was carefully considering Kyouko's words. But he then returned from the windowside and settled back down at his desk, silent but for a little sigh.

"... yes. I suppose," he began with an air of melancholy, picking up his pen to continue his work. "I did have a daughter once, and her name was Kyouko. But you are not my daughter and you are not Kyouko. God knows best what you are."

Murmuring out an Ah, yes, the old man dug his head deeper into his writing with renewed vigour. Perhaps thinking of something sad, his eyes lit up in both splendour and sorrow. All that could be heard was Kyouko's ragged breaths and the rhythmic scratching of pen and paper.

"What do I have to do to convince you that I am?"

"I am sorry. There is nothing you can do. I don't see anything human in you. You are not a human. You are not even one of God's creatures."

"The only way I can feel any pity – feel anything – for you is if you show something worth being pitied. Will you do that for me?"

Only with those words did the old man set his pen down. He raised his head again to look at Kyouko.

* * *

**13.**

To put it simply, there were no free lunches in this world. In exchange for sympathy for the devil, the old man wanted Kyouko to go through the very same situations that he read every day in the newspapers. His gripe was that ever since he discovered what Kyouko had done to him, he had become so paranoid and shaken with fear that his heart seemed to numb itself to the outside world. Something, he said, was needed to shake him from emotional statis, was needed to evoke in him the same feelings of pity and compassion that had once nourished his heart and his religion. For the sake of his faith, for the sake of preaching salvation to his followers, he had to write good sermons that were grounded in both feeling and reality. And not everything, he said, could be sunshine and rainbows.

Since he was following in the footsteps of the hallowed Saints and renewing the doctrine, he had to be sure there were no missteps in any part of the process, lest he become a charlatan without realising it. The old man had effectively come to see himself like a great painter, who could only be satisfied with painting what he had seen with his two own eyes. To this end, he would go to any lengths possible – if even Abraham could sacrifice Isaac for his cause, then surely the old man had no excuse for any lack of strength and conviction. There was even once when, as a young boy, he sat composed in front of a corpse rotting by the roadside after a great earthquake, sketching out its ugly form ― rotting face and blackened limbs and all ― without missing any detail, that he might share with others what a horrible sight he had seen.

Now, since natural disasters were out of the question and witches' bodies were very physically durable, the most Kyouko could offer to be put through was torture in all its varying kinds. The old man was kind enough to not try to replicate any form of the eight Hells, for that was not his aim. He only wanted to see with his own two eyes all the forms that suffering could take, and if possible, those he could hardly imagine. The reason for this was simple and straightforward: the old man needed a model for his sermons. He was finding it most difficult to complete those sections regarding human cruelty and the unquenchable hellfire. Precisely because he was too gentle and too kind a person, he could never bear to imagine such a terrible scene. Within the church, however, there happened to be an old wall mural from the Edo period, all too vividly showing the tortures of the Hell of Twisting Flames. If there was one place he could go to for direct inspiration, it was this. But gazing at it always unsettled him so much that he could hardly do anything but pray for the Lord's forgiveness the rest of the day.

In the painting, no one, from the pitiful beggar to the most decorated and virtuous of men, was spared from the Hellfire. In one corner, a young Buddhist laymonk had his eyes gouged out with a flaming pitchfork, while the Yin-Yang diviner beside him was forced to gulp down burning hot coals and molten lava. Magistrates and criminals alike were flogged and seared by half-goat hell wardens with their burning whips. A palace attendant in flowing pristine vestments, an old samurai with his wooden clogs and calligraphy brush, a sweet little girl dressed in her shichi-go-san kimono as she held onto her kendama, the likeness of Father Organtino still clutching onto the cross for mercy: there was no end to them. Human beings of every kind, submerged in thick smoke and flame, limbs and heads scattered about like camellia flowers falling. Kyouko herself saw it once before, and she could hardly forget the sight. She could see her mother there, hair spun round and round a giant trident, as a large oxman pummeled her with a grinding stone. Her friends in school all hung upside down from a twisted tree branch, crying tears of blood, waiting to be pierced through the stomach by arrows of searing white fire. Whether due to the sheer mastery of the painting or the old man's sensitive heart, looking at all its horrible torments made his skin feel like it was prickling in the flames of future come. The old man had been frightened of the searing heat long before he converted into Christianity ― and how could anyone wish this onto anyone else? The old man spread to the good word to save all people from their inherent damnation.

"But if it was a witch, then… I suppose it would be fitting, wouldn't it? Hell, that is."

His lips all too red pursed themselves. He hence proposed to Kyouko that she pick her poison out of all the current affairs and incidents which should have deeply aggrieved him, yet somehow failed to do so. There was the burning of a schoolteacher by schoolboys in Bangladesh, and then the burying alive of children for a bridge-construction effort in Uganda as sacrifice to the local deities, and even the torture chamber discovered in Cypress where victims had the eyes stapled shut. And, he went on, if Kyouko so liked, she could opt for the classical methods of torture, save for any form of sexual assault for he found in it a gross misconduct, and thought it unclean for anyone to mix with a servant of the devil as such. Ibn' Fadlan had recorded in his book of travels across the Mediterranean, for example, that he had seen thieves and adulterers being torn apart in half by tying them between the bent branches of two flexible trees, and then simply letting them go ― this was enough to achieve the intended effect. So long as the old man could arrange it, it was hers for the picking then. After all, he said, "there was nothing for a servant of the devil to lose. All you have to do is rely on the power of the devil."

Kyouko's face turned pale, and her bones even shaking in fear as she listened to the old man's speech. What shook her most, however, was not the incidents he related to Kyouko in gruesome detail, but instead the very casual and friendly tone laced beneath his words. She jolted up to her feet and backed one step to the door.

"Y, you're not human!"

The old man replied with a slight frown, "I am. You are not human. That is why you misunderstand. Our pain and our passion. You can't understand any of it. You think faith can just be bought and sold like a commodity. All you do is cast a veil over people's hearts. To us, our faith is more valuable than our lives, than all the comforts of this world. You played around and sullied our faith; and I do not know if it will ever become pure again. I suppose it's only fitting that we play around with your life now."

"No! Fuck this shit! I'm outta here! Fuck you! You! You...! Do you know what I've done for you! For this family! WHAT THE FUCK! FUCK! FUCKING HELL!"

The old man rose from his desk and walked towards Kyouko, long brisk strides.

"Hush, my child. Don't cry. There is no need to be upset."

Kyouko tried her best to distance herself from the old man, but she did not retaliate or put up a fight for fear of hurting her dear father. At last, she felt her back press the cold wooden door. Kyouko panicked and turned and grabbed the doorknob and turned. But it would not budge. It was too late.

Now the old man, face to face with Kyouko, took her chin in hand ― a soft yet vice-like grip ― and made her to look him in the eyes. On his face there was etched a cold yet compassionate smile.

"Listen carefully. Listen carefully and repeat after me. Kyouko is not human."

Kyouko shut her eyes. But she could not shut her ears.

"Kyouko is not human."  
"..."

A tear ran down Kyouko's cheek.

"Kyouko?"  
"K-Kyouko..."  
"is not?"  
"...is not."  
"human."  
"human."  
"Kyouko is not human."  
"Kyouko is not human."  
"Kyouko is not human."

Finally, the old man let go and took a step behind.

"That's better."

He ruffled Kyouko's hair and gave a short chuckle, then headed back to his desk.

This concluded their discussion. The sessions were scheduled to take place every Thursday from then on, but the timing was flexible and up to Kyouko's wishes. What Kyouko would be subjected to, of course, was a decision left to her own liberty. This, it seemed, was already a great concession of kindness from the old man. After all, Kyouko gave all the devotees no choice in their faith, subjugating their minds fully to the words of the old man. Had the old man been any less devout and holy a person, he might have just subjected her to the same cruel treatment and robbed her freedoms. Perhaps there really was a part of the old man that could still recognise in the witch, his daughter, Kyouko.

Yet, when Kyouko went to her room at bedtime, she did not dare to fall asleep, fearing what she would wake up when the morning came. Through the night, she thought of all the choices she had made and fantasized which one fork in the road she could have taken instead to make everyone happy again. What she failed to realise was that everyone was happy ― everyone save for her. This very presumptuousness of hers was what made her make her wish to Kyuubey after all. She should have known better. Incorrigibly self-centered to the core, a rotten girl like her should have only lived for herself and not dragged the whole world down with her.

* * *

日本魂・**The Soul of Japan: **to be continued.


	4. 日本魂・The Soul of Japan: 14-15

**14.**

Thursday soon came, and in this time, nothing had happened to Kyouko. Even the usual harassment she received had abated; her family members and even the congregation seemed to have softened their touch to her. But this came to no comfort for Kyouko. Everywhere she went, she still had to turn behind to make sure no one was watching her. Every day, she would still pluck her own apples in case her meals were laced with poison or the like. Kyouko had already come to expect an equal amount of suffering to the kindness she was given. There was no helping it; this was just the way the world worked. Everyone was only biding their time to let their hatred of her mature, after which she would surely receive retribution for all the ways in which she twisted their hearts with malice. On this count, at least, Kyouko was not wrong.

It was late evening that Thursday, and the sun was down. All church activities had already been suspended, hallways empty but for a lone administrative officer passing now and then. Kyouko arrived in her casualwear before the great doors of the main chapel. She knocked and pushed, feeling the weight of the heavy wood rumble into her ears. But with that too came a different sound altogether ― a sound from with inside that even Kyouko herself could not describe, except to say that it was eerie and frightening. It came washing down on her with the purple afterglow of twilight that flooded the church floors.

At first, it was just a sound, but soon, in snatches, the voice began to form words that came to her as if from under water, like the muffled cries of a drowning man. Kyouko strided further into the chapel, approaching the source of the noise. And from one of the benches at the very front row, ― "Wha-a-a-t?", it came ― Wha-a-a-t? You are going to Hell? You want me to come with you? You want me to come with you to Hell? The Hell of Searing Heat? You, " ― he gave off one short cry before his words diluted back to incoherent mumbling.

Kyouko, nearing the front of the hall, felt her feet stop of their own accord. Taking a few cautious steps, she peered fretfully through the gloom at the bench to see her father lying huddled against the backrest. Not only had his fair features gone stark white, thick beads of sweat were rolling off his furrowed brows, and his dry-lipped mouth strained wide open as if to gasp for air. And in the middle of his mouth ― of all things ―, his tongue writhing in a danse macabre, as though being yanked by a cord in all directions, spewing out all sorts of wailing and fragmented speech. No one who caught sight of the old man could escape the thought, no matter skeptical, that this man might just have been possessed by the devil. And who was it who gave him this tongue? It was you, wasn't it? It was you, it seemed to say, it was you, wasn't it? Kyouko caught herself in her fright and gripped one hand tightly to her wrist. _Is it because of me? Did I do this to_ _Otou-sama?_

"Who could it be but ― **you**, damn you! It _is_ you! I should have known! What? You've come to show me the way there? You want me to follow you? To Hell! My daughter is waiting for me in Hell! My daughter is burning! Waiting for me in Hell! Oh, oh!"

An uncanny feeling took Kyouko. Something was watching her; she could see it in the corner of her eyes, and she turned and she saw ― vague, misshapen figuress neither bird nor beast sliding over the walls and shadowing over the two. She could even see their gleaming red eyes gazing at her from everywhere abouts ― first the floor and now the ceiling and then the altar and at last. Quickly Kyouko reached for the old man's shoulders and tried to shake him awake, crying out Otou-sama! Otou-sama! But tight in the grip of frenzy, the old man went on talking to himself or to whatever it was that perhaps only He could be sure of.

"I am coming! You will come along with me! We are going! We are going, ah! Lord! Lord! Why have you forsaken us!"

The old man's eyes popped open, and his feverish pupils stared straight into Kyouko.

"Why have you forsaken us! Why have you forsaken us!" he cried out in his dream-like state.

Kyouko staggered back and leapt into the air, transforming into her uniform; her spear orbited around her in coils, blade pointing down like a scorpion's long stinger.

And she watched as the old man got up to his feet, unsteady, still staring at Kyouko. But his eyes had somewhen turned glassy, as though there were never anything reflected inside them.

* * *

**15.**

"Otou-sama!"

Kyouko tried to call out to him.

But the strange creatures must have been with him still, for his eyes strayed into space, with mouth agape and with terrified gaze. At length he returned to himself and muttered, "I'm alright now, I'm alright now, yes. I'm alright," before stumbling out the doors for a breath of fresh air. Kyouko withdrew her weapon and sat down on a bench, gazing around the grand chapel that had once seemed so much like home. As she kicked the dust upon the cold marble floor, she wondered how so much could have changed in so little a time. She wondered if she could still believe in this Christian God of theirs; or rather, she wondered if she had ever believed in Him at all. But there was no time for reminiscence.

Not long after, the old man re-entered the chapel, health now restored about him, but with some strange metallic object in his hands that made a harsh bell-like sound with every step he took. When he came closer, Kyouko could see what it was: a long, narrow iron chain.

"Now then, let's begin."

The old man settled the chains down with a clink and proceeded to explain himself.

"I need to see a person in chains, so just do as I say for now. Sorry about this, but could you strip? I need to see the skin."

The old man could mouth out apologetic phrases, but he issued his cold commands without the least show of sympathy. Not a single muscle on Kyouko's face moved, but even she must have been shocked by what was happening. Again and again after the fact, she would recall to herself, "Guess this was when I first thought the old man's lost it. Like, y'know: ah fuck, this is it, he's gonna kill me this time, drive a stake into my heart or something." Half in disbelief, half in trepidation, Kyouko began first by removing the sleeve of her jacket. The old man was apparently annoyed by Kyouko's slow preparations. Instead of waiting, he whipped out a pocket knife from God knows where and all but ripped into Kyouko's clothes, leaving scratches and the occasional stab mark across her body, before wrenching Kyouko's arms behind her and winding them round in the chain. Then he gave the end of the chain one cruel yank and sent Kyouko crashing to the floor.

Once certain that she was immobile, the old man proceeded to peel off those parts of clothing that he felt were most obstructive to his vision, and continued coiling the chain around Kyouko. With the chain cutting off her blood circulation, Kyouko's skin swelled red everywhere, from face to torso down to her toes. Of course this much is fact, but even I find it a bit unbelievable that Kyouko could have taken all this silently. In fact, I do not think Kyouko could possibly have stayed silent throughout the ordeal; it is unthinkable. But to what extent? Did Kyouko argue against the old man? Did she plead for him to set her free, or did she struggle against her state of bondage? When I heard this story again, the word was that even Kyouko did not know. Even if she knew, she did not remember. She probably couldn't even have heard her own voice cry out, against the static noise of her jumbled and breakaway thoughts, head fluffed up like wool.

What was clear though, was that Kyouko still felt all this pain as keenly as she would have before she became a magical girl. I can almost feel the bitter despair that must have been etched onto her face at the moment. The old man, though, seemed not the least bit concerned to see her like this; he circled the squished dumpling of a body, observing it from every angle, as though critiquing his creation.

"Something's not right. I need to see some purple."

First he tore off the cloth on Kyouko's back and tried out whipping her flesh with the remainder of the chain. The old man, being a priest by profession, was not very skilled in the use of the whip however, and could not achieve the effect he wanted. And after a moment's thought, he changed his approach and brought from the tool closet a small hammer, which he then used to try and break Kyouko's femur ― or at the very least, cause injury until the entire region of flesh was covered in a blueish-black discolouration.

"That's better," he said, at last satisfied.

The old man then went up to his seat and produced some sketches of the sight before getting to work on his sermon.

If nothing had interrupted it, Kyouko's torment would no doubt have lasted much longer, but fortunately, there swept into the chapel some dreaded creature of the night, with wings as fleet as metal blades, ambrose-coloured twinkling eyes, and bonsai-crooked yet thickly formed legs. Perching on the head of a bench nearby, the bird of prey ― the likes of which Kyouko had never seen before ― gave a piercing screech and locked its eyes on the girl lying down. The old man got to his feet in surprise, but nonetheless waited in observation.

"来るナ！来るナ！" Kyouko shouted in desperation, but too late.

The bird shrieked and lunged its talons straight for Kyouko's face. Had Kyouko not been quick enough to roll over and hide her face, she would surely have ended up with more than a gash or two across her cheeks. Kyouko cried out in pain and transformed, lashing blindly out at the sky with her spear, only to provoke the bird's ire. Beak clattering, the bird shrieked once more and swooped down, relentlessly beating its wings, using any opening it could to attack Kyouko's face, intent on gouging out her eyes. Caught in a helpless confrontation, Kyouko felt so lost that the familiar chapel hallways felt like a haunted valley deep in the mountains, with the smell of rotting leaves, the spray of a waterfall, the sour fumes of fruit stashed away by a monkey; even the dim glow of the old man's desk lamp looked to her like misty moonlight in the hills.

Being tied up and attacked by a monster, however, was not what frightened Kyouko. If she truly wanted to, she could retaliate and break through it all, though with an almost herculean effort. What really made her flesh crawl was the way the old man followed the commotion from the pulpit with his cold stare, taking his time to spread out a piece of paper on the ambo, uncapping his fountain pen. This alone drained her of any will to fight back. No doubt, this little couldn't have killed her; but she rather much wished that it could. After all, why fight back when this was what she had wished to Kyuubey for in the first place? It was all Kyouko could think to defend herself. And then, with his back hunched over, the old man set about capturing the terrible image of his own daughter being tormented, for use in his next sermon. It was the role of the pastor after all to lead his congregation towards salvation. His eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and fervour, for he knew all too well that suffering was needed for salvation ― the greater the suffering derived, the deeper the salvation begotten. At the sight, Kyouko was overcome by an inexpressible terror.

She asked herself, "If God's so good, why do people have to suffer and kill for Him?" Only Heaven knows.

Kyouko did not know how far the old man would go in the name of God, but she was quite certain that the Lord would not mind it very much either way.

And in the corner of the chapel, watching the scene almost in expectation, Kyouko could just barely make out the faint afterimage of those gleaming red eyes which seemed to haunt her everywhere she went.

* * *

日本魂・**The Soul of Japan: **to be continued.


	5. 日本魂・The Soul of Japan: 16

**16.**

And who knew if it all was really just that? – just a series of coincidences? That the bird should have flown in at that moment, that the old man should have rendered Kyouko immobile and drawn from her the scent of blood, and that that pair of unblinking red eyes should have been there to bear witness to it all – could this really have been nothing more than a convenient stroke of luck? What really was it that was staring at her – could those two eyes have been those of Kyuubey kindly watching over her, or perhaps the devil Himself lying in wait? Kyouko could not tell; Kyouko did not know. Above it all, roiled in her agony, she was only certain that there must have been some kind of connection behind it all, some sense of meaning to all that had to be suffered. For it almost seemed as if the old man had orchestrated this in entirety, that his sole purpose was to set the bird free on Kyouko and watch her desperately try to escape. And of the many questions that arose in her mind, only one insistent word rose above the noise and pounded against her ears – _**Why?**_

When Kyouko glimpsed the old man at work, she felt her arms come up to protect her face and she heard a senseless cry escape her throat, as she squirmed into the aisles, beneath the pews to hide away. That same instant, the old man shouted out and sprung up to his feet, and the bird's each dreadful beating of its wings hollowed faster and louder into her ears and then came violent clatters from all over and a monstrous shriek erupted. Then, the faint sound of gunfire and the blurry murmur of friendly words close by her ear. Having covered her head in terror, Kyouko raised it again to find that the whole room had gone pitch dark, and she found that all the chains from her body had shattered to dust. All her wounds too had been healed with not a single scar remaining, though still covered in blood. It was all she could do to keep from crying, staring at the lines of her hands and ask herself – _Ah, God, am I really not human anymore? Am I really a witch?  
_

And in the background, Kyouko heard the old man's angry voice calling out for the lights.

"The devil!" he roared, "Tricks of the devil! All of it! Each and every one of you! You are there, aren't you! You were always here! Show yourself, fiend!"

Eventually, a far-off cry came in response, and soon a churchhand came into the chapel, rushing past Kyouko with an oil lantern held high. In its sooty-smelling glow, Kyouko saw the figure of the bird, now lying in a pool of moonlit blood, dead on the nave's red carpet. On its corpse, there were still a few shreds of yellow ribbon, and a gaping bullet wound was left on the side of its head. Exiting the ambo and climbing down the altar stairs, the old man was muttering something incomprehensible to myself as he held out a torch to survey the situation, holding his forehead in shock. And no wonder! Everywhere was devastation. Bullet-like holes large and small riddled the length of the nave, and some of the pews were even smashed into pieces, while the marble floor skidded or even ruptured in places. There must have been some violent struggle that led to the ultimate demise of the bird, and before this strange sight, all they could do was gawk. Within minutes, another group of churchhands came in to assist. The thumping of footsteps and confused talk returned Kyouko to her senses, and she silently got up to her feet. Taking one last view of the chapel, she thought to leave the scene before anyone noticed her.

And then the lights flickered back on. One churchhand met eyes with Kyouko and let out a loud gasp.

All eyes turned to Kyouko. Everyone was staring at her. The old man, the old woman, Momo, the churchhands, the priests, the worshippers, the beady red unblinking eyes staring at her from the shadows far, far away – they were watching her every movement. With every step she took, they were watching. With every breath she took, with every turn of the head in search of some exit, they were watching her and they were following her and they might just as well have been thinking, ah, so this is what happened, and what do we do now? what do we do now? And then, she screamed.

**"AAAGHHHHHHHH!"**

Light and air echoed from Kyouko's vicinity. Transformed into her battle uniform, Kyouko clutched onto her spear, trembling – still too afraid to have to even point it at anyone. "D-DON'T COME CLOSER!" she shouted, feeling as cornered as a bear trapped in a cage. But there was no more need for fear. Just then, a pale miasma seemed to cloak the eyes of all those in the room, rimming all their irises in a dull red glow. This was – or rather, this _ought to have been_ – the mark of Rosso Fantasma, her signature illusion magic. But Kyouko had no recollection of ever activating it, nor was she supposed to have the energy leftover to summon such a powerful move. Furthermore, what should have been nothing more than confusion and illusion seemed to have planted one little seed in them to erase whatever was left of their sense of reality. She had, so to say, reached into their hearts and took hold of their mind, never to be free from her influence ever again. She had turned them all into zombies just like her. And from that moment on, they saw only what Kyouko deeply wanted to them to see, feel, touch, hear, and think – that of which, perhaps, even Kyouko herself was unsure.

"We won't come closer."  
"We won't come closer."  
"We won't come closer."  
"Don't be scared, dear."  
"It's alright, we didn't mean to scare you."  
"You know you're such a sweet little girl, don't you?"

Kyouko quickly realised what she had done, and the colour dripped from her face in fright. At last, her magic had run rampant at last, and – almost as if by divine punishment – she was struck with the very same curse as the old man.

"Why do you look so sad, my child?" the old man himself asked, now with open arms, now with the twinkle in his eyes, now with that old nostalgic smile on his face.

As for why Kyouko should have looked so sad then, this was because she finally realised – her father was right all along. She was a witch, nothing but a witch.


	6. 日本魂・The Soul of Japan: 17-18

**17.**

From that day on, wherever Kyouko went, if she so much as cast a glance upon another person, their eyes would fog up in red and their entire person would change as if to her answer to her bidding. Those people who had once ridiculed and shunned her now doted on her like they did long ago. Even those who had always been cold now showered her in affection. Everywhere were she went was smiles and friendly banter. And however shocked Kyouko might have been, she could not turn down their kindnesses, and she would think to herself – even if this is all a mistake, is it really something that needs to be corrected? This was the fruition of all that she could ever have asked for, after all. But with each friendly laugh they shared, something seemed to seep out of Kyouko's heart. This was not how she wanted things to be; this was not what she wanted to become. Time and again, in the privacy of her room, silent prayer, her conscience would touch her, and she would bitterly regret the wish that she'd ever made. "What am I turning into?" she would ask, "A monster?" she would ask. No reply would come, but the answer was always clear.

Stung by all these incidents, Kyouko felt as if she brought only damnation to those around her, and she thus found ways to keep her distance from all the world. Even when she went on witchhunts, she no longer relied on the assistance of M-senpai and went about in complete anonymity. Her family too – she only returned to see them for dinnertime. Having hypnotised the manager of a business hotel in downtown Kazamino – a fellow parishioner of her father's church –, she gained free residence at the suite on the top floor. There, Kyouko spent her daylight hours hiding, gazing down at the world in isolation. But apart from this, there is nothing much more to tell about Kyouko during this period. She had come to believe that she'd done all she could for her family, and she then gave up on her place in the world.

It was arguably for this reason that greater horrors once preventable would soon befall the lot. The old man came to settle into an even deeper layer of gloom, and his manner of speech to his churchhands became markedly harsher. Word was out that some of them had found the master's behaviour so frightening that they stopped attending the church altogether. These were probably the luckiest of them all; they had gotten away while they still could. This was because the old man still found trouble fulfilling his position as a pastor. Rather, the longer he went on, the more he felt as though he were losing his way. Had Kyouko only stayed on, the old man's temper would certainly have abated. At the very most, he would simply redirect his ressentiment onto Kyouko. But now, in his doubt, his heart had fully hardened, so to say, and the warm blood from which poured forth his faith seemed to finally dry. And how could a pastor to whom the path to salvation was not clear ever lead anyone anywhere?

No one quite knew what problem the old man was exactly facing, and for their own good, no one tried to find out. There was no guarantee that the old man would not one day turn on them and put them through the same cruel treatment as Kyouko had once suffered. On worse days, the old man's assistants felt as if they were locked up in a cage with a bear or a tiger, with no hope for escape. As the tone of the old man's speeches became darker and more apocalyptic, no one knew what to expect anymore, even as the church grew ever faster and began to draw people from all over the country. At dark nights with no moon – the most dreadful of them all – the old man would struggle like an injured wild beast in his nightmares, screaming out, "You! You are here, aren't you! My daughter is waiting for me in Hell! In Hell! You will take me there!" And whenever he awoke, he would cry out, "You fiend! The devil stands before me! The devil stands before me!", and he would go berserk, wrecking everything in sight to dispel the phantoms hanging in sight. Even his own wife was not spared. The one time she tried to wake him up from an afternoon nap, he sprung to his feet and pinned her to the bed, hands wrung around her neck, as he foamed at the mouth and shouted, "It is you, isn't it? You made me like this! You made me like this!" Only when the old woman shed tears, pleading him to come to his senses, did he break free from the grip of madness. Releasing her, the old man stumbled backwards, before fleeing from the scene. The whole time, it seemed, his eyes were trembling in fear, as if he had seen the burning fires of Hell itself in his slumber.

And yet, even in this time, what most people remembered of the old man was not violence but sorrow. Often, in brief catches of time, it was easy to find the religious old man suddenly turn weepy. One of the churchhands once reported that while pruning the hedges, he saw the old man walk into the orchard and rest beneath the great shade of some apple tree. Then, gazing blankly at the sky with its promise of winter come, his eyes filled with tears as he started to mutter to himself mournfully. Embarrassed for the old man, the churchhand withdrew from his work. As to why this cheerful and sunny old man ought to have wept, no one could come to a consensus. There were those old-timers who praised the goodness of his heart and said he was crying for the fallen state of humanity. Still yet were the newer parishioners who insisted that their pastor – in his search for salvation – was going mad with grief, that everywhere he saw pictures of the damned and despaired. But they all agreed on one thing: they said the old man was surely weeping there for his daughter who had been sent down to Hell. When asked which daughter it was however, they could not be sure.

It could have been Kyouko, they wondered. All signs ought to have pointed to this conclusion. Yet, under the influence of a perpetual Rosso Fantasma, they shrugged it off as another absurdity. Because – Kyouko was the most angelic person they'd ever seen, whose presence brought joy and warmth wherever she went. There was no need to grieve with her around. Naturally, their thoughts then turned to Momo. Much as they hated the thought of it, they could not discount the possibility. While the old man was madly absorbed in his mission, his daughter began to show increasing signs of melancholy, until the rest of them could all see that she was fighting back her tears every time she saw her father. What to begin with was a spritely, outgoing, and energetic little girl soon took on a permanently depressive aspect as her lashes grew dull and shadows began to form around her eyes. This gave rise to a great deal of speculation. That she was worried sick for her father, that she was missing her sister – such were the standard interpretations.

Then one night came, as one churchhand recalled, the hallways were steeped in mingled moonlight and fog, with no sound but for the faint trickling of a fountain somewhere and the cawing of monkeys through the forest. That night was a strangely humid night, the fading fragrance of plum blossoms hanging thick in the air. But what did the churchhand find there? It started with a scream. Then followed strings of words belted out with manic intensity. Whose, it could not be sure. The churchhand swore that all this was true, that he heard this only round the corner. Fretful, he tiptoed through the corridor, before the pale reflection of the moon down the church pond came swimming into his eyes. And down the hallway, just a bit to the right in fact, was the heavily ornamented doors to some ministerial chamber, the exact usage of which had since been lost since the church's construction. Finally the voices became slightly clearer. The louder of them was very clearly the old man, in the throes of yet another fit – or so it seemed, yet there was a certain edge to it that suggested more than mere delirium. And the second – too late. The churchhand rushed to the door and knocked and asked if all was right. Suddenly all fell hushed.

* * *

**18.**

The sound of the fountain, of the monkeys, of the spring leaves dancing in the breeze – and then, stilted breathing and the quiet sound of struggle. Frantic yet strangely muffled sounds crept into his ears. Receiving no response, the churchhand thought to knock a little harder. But scarcely had he extended his arm when the door flung wide open. This sent the churchhand staggering, and he fell backward, hitting the metal railing behind him. There was no more room for hesitation. The churchhand scrambled to all fours and crawled beyond the moonlight's edge, shrouding himself in the shadow of some large pillar, when at that very moment, something shot out the door, slamming onto the cold stone floor. He peered past the darkness and gave a yelp – there was Momo, bleeding from the head. She had flown out as though some terrible strength had flung her out the room. And the churchhand, fearing the worst, scuttered to her side, to find her trembling, breathless, staring at a corner of the floor as if traumatised by some horror.

On next instinct, the churchhand turned to look into the dark chambers. There was no one there anymore – or was there ever anyone else? Word had it that there had been a gruesome accident as of late near a kindergarten – a high-speed car collision that resulted in one truck ricocheting towards the sidewalk. It just so happened that a group of kindergartners were walking past that segment then, and the unthinkable became the unavoidable. Two children, ages two and three respectively, died on the scene. Three more were in critical condition at the time, and another sixteen were heavily injured. The churchhand, knowing this, at first extended his pity and kindness to the poor girl. He assumed that Momo had fallen prey to another one of the master's violent outbursts in the way of his religion.

It can't be helped, it can't be helped, the churchhand sighed to himself, as he prepared to lend Momo a helping hand, feeling a great sense of shame for no one in particular. But there was something off, he noticed. That night, Momo seemed to shine with an all-new vividness, looking as though she were an utterly different person. Her eyes were large and brimming with tears. And her cheeks seemed to be burning red, her breath haggard as her chest heaved and fell at chaotic intervals. Her disheveled clothes gave rise to an improper allure that contrasted harshly with both her once-innocent childishness and her sorrowful silence. The churchhand was stunned at the sight and could not help but ask himself if this really was the pastor's beloved daughter. As if they were capable of pointing, the churchhand flicked his eyes over to the empty chambers and, speech hushed, asked her, "What happened back there?"

All Momo did was bite her lip in silence and shake her head, deeply mortified. The churchhand then leaned over close to her ear, catching a whiff of some scented flowers' perfume – in the air from the gardens perhaps? – and asked again, "Who was it that did this to you?" Yet again she refused to answer, this time laying there stilled in her despondence, tears falling down her lashes. The churchhand, from where he was, could hear the frantic beating of her heart, and her faint body warmth wafted straight to his skin in moments when the wind did not blow. And, leaning back once more, his heart was moved by her in that pitiful sight.

Afraid having of any more harm coming to the beautiful girl, the churchhand thought to shelter her in his quarters. He began to speak in a husky tone: "It's alright, I'll keep you safe." By then, Momo's agitation ought to have subsided somewhat, but these few words triggered her fear once again, as she began to sob beneath her voice. Feeling all the more encouraged to act, the churchhand picked her up by the hand and tried to bring her along. But in some strange act of defiance, Momo simply stood where she was, rooted to the ground. After saying more words of comfort, the churchhand hoisted her into his arms in a cradle and walked off into the darkness. There was no more struggle to be had. Momo was kept safe the whole night.

And yet, especially after this incident, something seemed to have sapped all the life out of the poor girl. How deranged Momo had become! people would say, how much she grieves for her father! What a filial girl! Day by day, Momo seemed to shrivel like a flower cut from its stem and left without water. Her dress and her hair, however primly arranged by the old woman, did nothing to hide the eerie glow in her eyes and the sadness in her smile. Disturbed by the sight, more people came together once more to piece together what had happened. They were parishioners of the church after all – a great degree of responsibility must fall onto them to ensure that all was well.

Could it be, they wondered, if Momo was in fact taken by the devil to the depths of Hell? Could it be that this was an impostor? And the churchhand who recounted the above incident concluded that, being born stupid, he could not know anything that was not perfectly clear, leaving the rest to the congregation. The wisdom of the masses came to the inevitable conclusion that Momo had tried to summon some demon or evil spirit to thwart the old man's path but had failed, resulting in her injury. They confronted Momo soon, it seemed, starting with the youngest of the lot and steadily escalating, in order to prove her innocence or lack thereof, whichever so suited the time of day. What happened next on this regard, there is nothing left to know.

The whole time, Kyouko of course remained none the wiser.

There came one Sunday afternoon when Kyouko headed back to church just to visit. Entering the empty second-floor gallery, Kyouko couched herself in a dark corner concealed by red velvet curtains and peered down. This is what she saw:

In a chapel packed with more people than she'd ever seen, a swirling hysteria seemed to take them all together by the ear, chilling Kyouko's feet when she saw their faces. And what did their faces look like? There were faces of sorrow, there were faces of guilt, there were faces of rapture, there were faces in solemn prayer. But the most affecting of them all were those faces ashen and lifeless, bereft of both hope and despair, as they stared out into some distance, nothing. They smiled, to be sure, but theirs was no smile of joy at all. Best, it can only be described as a hollow imitation of the smiles of the saints.

There, at the very top of it all, standing tall upon the high altar, was the old man in all his magnificence. With arms outstretched to receive his followers, his voice cascaded all around with feverish power.

"What is life? A frenzy! What is life? An illusion! And the greatest good is ever so small before our Crime! And what is our crime? To have even been born! The greatest sin of Man is the fact that He was born!"

Cheers after cheers – or were they wails? – of Amen! Amen! erupted from the congregation, all bathed in golden warm sun.

Kyouko wanted to disagree. But she held her tongue.

This might not have been good news to her, but it was surely good news to them.

* * *

**19.**

And this was how it all fell apart – one little whisper after another.

* * *

日本魂・**The Soul of Japan: **to be continued.


	7. 日本魂・The Soul of Japan: 19

There one day came the news that one of the devotees had killed himself. How he did so was not disclosed to the congregation, but the reasons behind his act seemed to have gotten out from who knows where. The logic was simple but profound: if our crime was to ever have been born into God's good dominion, then it would not do for us to worsen our original sin by remaining alive anymore. Maybe things would really have gone differently had Adam eaten some other fruit instead, but things being as they are, we have no excuse to shirk our responsibilities as the sons of Man. Saint Aquinas might have conjectured that suicide was a mortal sin because it went against human nature, but if human nature was as twisted as this, if we were destined to carry forever the sins of our fathers, what could be more blessed than to die in the way of the Lord? And if life was truly a divine gift from God, what could be more pious than to keep it as pure as possible? – untainted by the decay of life itself? This was by and large the logic he followed to his death. In the weeks afterwards, he towered over all the parish as a hallowed martyr. Granted, there were many who found his sacrifice disagreeable, but there was no denying that one and all envied the extent of his devotion. One by one wanted to become like him, to live for the Lord and die for the Lord. One by one succeeded.

The old man was no different in this regard. Horrified by what he had caused, he began working at a manic pace in search of salvation, preaching day and night the blessing of Love and Joy. But no matter how many empty words of hope the old man uttered, nothing could mask over the deep notes of anguish etched onto his tongue. In fact, the harder he tried to dispel encroaching death, the more it seemed to spread in the hearts of believers. He struggled haplessly as the members of his church began to follow each other to the end. Sometimes, they went out alone either going to wander forever in the quiet of Mt. Fuji's forests or to drown while having a nice hot bath. Sometimes, they shuffled off this mortal coil in entire families or groups, often through chemical gas poisoning from the inexpensive and reliable mixing of detergents. In one instance, Kazamino authorities found a group of five, six middle-school students huddled up in a closet, with the cloyingly sweet smell of hydrogen sulfide abound. They were convinced they would make themselves beautiful with death and come to find peace in a much better place than they could ever know. Were they wrong? – well, wouldn't you like to know? There is no telling from the silence of the grave.

In this way, watching all their friends and family align themselves towards the afterlife, as if queueing up in one orderly line to meet the end, each one of the parishioners' hearts gradually dried up, leaving only a pure reveration and awe for their sweet Lord. Like moths to a flame, the church turnout only continued to rise in this time of tragedy. People in search of comfort flocked to the old man. I can only hope they found this comfort in their last moments. The death toll naturally climbed as a result, turning into what was later known as a suicide epidemic that year. To outsiders who didn't know what to make of it, it seemed as though each of them had simply lost their minds or had suffered some unbearable scar to the heart. Perhaps this really wasn't too far from the truth.

Nights became common when the old man could be seen hunched over his desk in his study, always on the verge of tears as he prepared his sermons and deliberated on the state of his religion. He was well aware that with every word he spoke, another one more person would be moved closer to the point of death. Still, he continued writing in complete trust of his Lord, hoping that if he went far enough down the road, the day would come when all their suffering would pay off, just like it had done before. But the doubt that he had indeed become an agent of the devil soon poisoned the well of his mind. Sometimes, stubbornly convinced that his hands were stained with blood, he would carry on washing them until his skin had all wrinkled from the water. The old man would turn back hesitantly every few steps, always watching something in the corner of his eyes, thinking that the spirits of his parish were following him, waiting for him. Dark clouds would cross the old man's face as he grieved for the dead, only to sometimes be replaced by a wry grin or frenzied mumbling. Even during Mass, in the middle of his frenetic speeches, a hushed silence would suddenly descend, and the old man would either stand still wooden all at once, or his speech would devolve into furious incomprehensible ranting. People said that this was the work of divine revelation at play. Or perhaps he saw his daughter from the abyss of Hell standing right before his eyes. You could see the thin of his lips tremble. In fear or in awe? – was there ever any difference to him? I don't know.

Then there came one day. Midnight was approaching. The old man was on his way from the gardens to his study, accompanied by a churchhand, when he heard an awful screeching sound. He could not tell where it was coming from – the forest or the city or the church, or maybe – ? He halted and turned to the churchhand. He gazed at the churchhand. His eyes were vacant. He said nothing. "Is there anything, sir?" He said nothing.

The churchhand took a step back. The moon was bright that night. The clouds hung low like fog.

"Sir?"

He said nothing.

"What's wrong, sir?"  
"It's you, isn't it?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"It's you, isn't it? It's you. Putting all those thoughts into my head."  
"...sir?"  
"Even now I can still hear the screams. Do you know what it's like? It's you, isn't it? Burning. In Hell. My daughter is burning. You. All of You."  
"Sir, I don't under –"  
"No, you do understand."  
"I –"  
"You do. It's you, isn't it?"  
"...I, I –"

Just then, interrupting them came another one again, an awful shrieking from somewhere and strained silence. The old man and the churchhand quickly took grip of themselves and headed for the source of the commotion, deep within the church grounds. Their search was quite easy, for there was no end to the noise and the echoes were few. The closer they got, the more beastlike the sounds seemed to emerge, as if in chorus with the brakking of the creatures of the night. And finally, pulling out of the shadows, they arrived. There were shouts and weeping coming out.

And suddenly, no more.

There there were two rooms, side by side. They gave each other a look, before the old man put his hand on the doorknob. He knocked loudly and, without waiting for an answer, opened the door. They entered the room.

The inside was brightly lit, with all the lights turned on. Not a single thing it seemed was hidden from sight.

By the front of the room, near the lecturing platform, the body of a young woman sprawled motionless on the ground in a puddle of dry red, with a deep cut to her neck, her skin a whiter shade of pale where there weren't discolourations of dark blue already. Above her by the centre of the stage hung down from the overhead projector a long noose. And there, by a corner, an old woman lay trembling on the ground, muttering incoherently under her breath, curled up into a ball, legs bent into unnatural angles. Beside her stood a tall man still in suit and tie. He seemed to be trying to help her up.

From where the churchhand stood, peeking his head slightly over the door, not much was clear. The two seemed to be in some kind of conversation, with the man smiling in mild frustration as he spoke softly, while all the old woman did was cry and mumble and shake her head and say, "I want to go home I want to go home home not here I waきたい帰りたい 帰れ 戻る戻る戻もかええaaaaaaaaaaa" And the man kissed her by the forehead and held her hand tight and tried to pull her up to her feet, but she wouldn't move. The man raised his voice just the slightest, enough for the churchhand to hear, "Don't you want to go home? It's ok, I'll take you back." Yet the old woman just shook her head and huddled even more into her knees, too terrified to move, such that even if the man pulled, she would drag her body against the waxed wooden floor and claw away at thin air with her one free arm like some cursed spirit being dragged off by the wardens of hell.

The tall man, seeing this, finally relented. He gave a sigh and stepped back. A few moments were silence. Then, he let out a crazed roar and he swung his foot and dug one sharp kick into the ribs. And one sharp kick followed another followed another and he screamed, "WHY WON'T YOU GET UP! GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!"

* * *

日本魂・**The Soul of Japan: **to be continued.


End file.
